Shell
by JeanBoulet
Summary: A man without an identity is like an empty shell. Set after 04x03 but before 04x04. T for violence and language.


Disclaimer: Don't own, don't profit. I promise.

* * *

He felt his lungs spasm, desperately trying to cough up more of the dirt he had inhaled from earlier that night. His hands were folded at his lap and he twitched nervously. One hand was brought up every so often to cover his mouth when he coughed. It was polite—something his mother had taught him, of course.

_Mother_.

The word sent shivers down his spine. The man who had questioned him before accused him of murdering his mother, but he would never do that. Never. And he always assumed that an officer of the law would not lie about something like that, so it must be true that his mother was dead…

It was a sad revelation. He had been so sad, so distraught—so angry that he would be accused of this heinous crime—that without thinking, he had hurled the officer through the one-way glass. And he never even touched the man.

He clenched his hands tighter in his lap, as if willing the unseen power away. He knew it was no use. The power was there for good. He had learned that the hard way.

There were voices in the hallway. If the glass had not been shattered, he would not have been able to hear anything, but he could hear bits and pieces of the conversation now. Two voices. A man and a young woman, probably a teenager, by the sound of her voice.

"…all over the news…" This from the young female voice. "…you think I couldn't see?"

The response from the man was so rushed that he could not decipher all of it. "…had to be done…only way…killed a Senator…"

There was more to the argument, but none of it reached the prisoner's ears. He jumped when the door to the interrogation room slammed open, revealing a tall, very hit man-like frame. The weird-looking glasses just completed the image.

'Glasses' stalked forward and didn't give the prisoner any time before jamming a needle into his neck. The prisoner cried out, trying to keep his hands from flailing out and causing another accident.

"What the hell was that for?" he choked out. Immediately, the prisoner started to notice changes. His thoughts were…fuzzy, incomplete…like trying to navigate through a thick fog. That, in turn, made his movements jerky, so he decided it would be best not to move at all. He just clung to the arms of his chair, trying to fight back the fog.

The man towering over him just sneered. "I should have killed you when I had the chance. Now that you're back, you'll just go back to killing people."

His eyes shot open, and he tried to look up at the other man, blinking furiously. "I…I haven't killed anyone… Why does everyone think I killed my mother? I didn't kill my mother!" The prisoner did not even see the fist barreling into his face.

"Sure you didn't." Glasses muttered, shaking out his hand. "Just like you didn't hurt Claire. Or kill Nathan, or Elle's father. Or Elle, for that matter."

"Elle…?" As painful as it was, the name made him lift his head. "Elle's dead?"

The man's eyes shone with contempt, and he shook his head. "Don't play the ignorant game with me. I'm a hell of a lot better at lying than you are, so I can see right through you." Then, he did the unthinkable—he pulled out a gun, pressed the barrel against the prisoner's forehead, and clicked off the safety. "Tell me where the sweet spot is."

Even though his mind was fogged over by whatever drug had been injected into him, the prisoner's heart worked just fine. He could feel it thudding in his chest, sending blood pounding to his ears. "Wh-What sweet spot?"

The barrel pressed even harder against his skull, making the prisoner writhe under the pressure, but the man still barreled on. "The sweet spot. I know you changed its location, so where is it?"

_Oh God…_ This man really would shoot him. Glasses was going to kill him at any instant, and the prisoner did not know why. He kept repeating it over and over, but his captor would not take it for an answer.

"I guess…" Glasses said when he still had not told him the location of this mysterious sweet spot. "I'll have to find it."

He had not thought that this amount of pain was possible. The man shot off his fingers, one by one, and to the prisoner's horror, they grew right back. He was screaming in pain as each shot rang out after an unacceptable answer. Finally, he could not take it anymore. "I DON'T KNOW!" he screamed for a final time. "I don't know where the spot is! I don't know 'Claire' or 'Nathan', and Elle was very dear to me, so I don't know why you would think I killed her! And I _didn't kill my mother_!!" His voice was hoarse by the end, and he had not realized that tears were streaming down his cheeks.

His captor stared at the tears in almost…bewilderment. His expression was almost as if he were going to believe the prisoner, but… "You're good." No. No, he was not finished yet. "Crocodile tears work on a lot of people, Sylar, but not me."

His breath caught, and he just about protested the name before the butt of the gun came down on his head. He heard the cracking and reassembling of his skull, but he also heard a younger, more feminine voice mixed in.

She was definitely a teenager, with her youthful athletic build that was probably the result of a soft sport like track, gymnastics, or cheerleading. Her blond hair was mussed, and there was red in her green eyes. She and Glasses were arguing right in front of him.

"Let me try something."

"I have this covered, C—" but Blondie clamped a hand over his mouth.

"Just let me try it." She insisted. She and Glasses shared a glare, but he backed away, and she knelt in front of the prisoner. Her green eyes locked with his brown ones, and her face was strained as she pointed to herself.

"Who am I?"

He frowned, panting and out of breath, and shook his head. "I _don't know_. Please, just let me go back to my quiet life—"

Blondie grabbed his face with her hands, silencing him. "Focus." Next, she pointed to Glasses. "Who is he?"

Again, he shook his head.

Blondie and Glasses looked at each other for a long time, and then Blondie turned back to the prisoner. "And who are you?"

Huh. Funny, no one had really asked him that. When the cops spotted him fleeing the graveyard, covered in dirt and panting madly, they had recognized the face of their killer. The same had happened with the other man. But now, this teenager was asking him the most simplest of questions, so he answered her truthfully.

"Gabriel. Gabriel Gray."

* * *

Author's Note: So I actually wrote this after 04x03, "Acceptance", but I've just gotten up the courage to post it. xP As always, critiques are encouraged, and flames make the best cookies EVER.

Thanks for reading!

~Shade


End file.
